Court Trouble

by Mike Befeler

  “I went sometime.”

  “Who asked you to go there?”

  “Some broad.”

  “What’d she look like?”

  “Couldn’t tell. All bundled up in a baggy jacket and ski cap.”

  “What’d she ask you to do?”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “You want fifty bucks or not?”

  Clyde struggled to sit up, but collapsed back onto the cot.

  “Let’s see the money.”

  Mark held out a fifty-dollar bill. “Answer my questions and then you can have the money. What did the woman ask you to do?”

  “Shit. She gave me a pair of gloves and a garrote. Told me to work over a guy.”

  Mark shivered. “Why would you do that?”

  “For five hundred bucks, man. I was strapped.”

  “Who were you supposed to attack?”

  He couched. “I’ve had enough of this.”

  Mark continued to wave the money. “Fifty bucks, Clyde. Describe the man the woman told you to assault.”

  “She didn’t tell me anything, just gave me an envelope that she said had instructions. I opened it later to find a typed note that said to take out the man who didn’t wear glasses and didn’t have a white beard. On the funny tennis court.”

  “And you found him?”

  “I caught a bus to the rec center. Saw the guys bouncing around inside this cage. Waited in the shadows . . .” His voice trailed off and he seemed to be falling asleep.

  Mark shook him again. “What happened next?”

  “It got cold. I waited. They finally quit. The guy I wanted lagged behind the others. I caught him and pulled him into the bushes.”

  “Did you plan to kill him?”

  “I don’t know, man. I needed to do something. The broad promised me another five hundred dollars.”

  “Did you carry out your mission?”

  “No . . . never completed . . . guy’s friend came back . . . chased me away.”

  Mark thought how he could have been the victim. Clyde sprawled powerless now, but he appeared strong and well-built. Whoever had ordered the attack knew what the foursome looked like and that they would be at the courts playing on Tuesday night. Whoever had ordered the attack didn’t count on Mark not being there.

  “What was the plan for you to receive the additional five hundred bucks?”

  “Supposed to be left in a white paper bag in the trash bin on the corner of Pearl and Thirteenth.”

  “Did you check?”

  “Yeah. Nothing there. Say, why you asking all these questions?”

  “I’m trying to find out who the woman was.”

  “Just some bitch.”

  “Young or old?”

  “Young.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Couldn’t see much of her face.”

  “Any distinctive features?”

  “Good skin . . . one small mole on the left side of her neck.”

  “What did her voice sound like?”

  “She tried to speak in a deep voice . . . a little southern accent . . . I need to sleep.”

  Mark leaned closer. “How did she know to ask you to do this?”

  “I’d done it once before. For a guy named Roscoe.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “For Howard Roscoe?” Mark asked as he clutched Clyde’s arm.

  “Hey, you’re hurting my arm.” Clyde tried to shake off Mark’s grip.

  Mark let go. “How do you know Roscoe?”

  “We served in the Marines together. Word got out about my background . . .” Clyde stopped with a confused look on his face.

  Mark felt like he had to pry every word out of him.

  “Your background?”

  “I fought in the Gulf War. Trained in hand-to-hand combat. In a fire fight an Iraqi attacked me. I strangled him.” He raised his large hands.

  “So people heard you had a special skill.”

  “Yeah. I did it a few times, and people noticed. Then Roscoe paid me to take care of a competitor of his.”

  Mark shook his head. He didn’t know what to make of all this.

  “So, you think the woman who approached you learned this from Howard Roscoe?”

  “I’ve had enough of this crap. Leave me alone so I can sleep.”

  Mark dropped the fifty-dollar bill on the bed. He wondered if he should turn Clyde in to Peters or forget him. Since Peters didn’t want him to be investigating, he decided not to risk Peters’s wrath.

  Leaving the room, Mark raced down the stairs and out the back door, glad to be outside. As he returned to his car, his stomach tightened as he recalled what Clyde had done. He tried to piece it all together. Maybe Cheryl Idler had paid him. It seemed awfully similar to the setup with Old Mel. And she did have a southern accent. But Howard Roscoe seemed the most likely person to hire Clyde to carry out the attack. Could he have put Cheryl Idler up to it? Or did Roscoe have another woman help him?

  More than ever, Mark felt that Ken Idler was not the murderer.

  He would see if he could uncover any new clues tomorrow—at the platform tennis tournament.

  Mark arrived at the courts an hour early. After posting the draw sheet on the outside wall of the rec center facing the courts, he set up a card table and unfolded a chair.

  Woody arrived next. He came up to the table to sign in. “Mark, you’re wearing the same old gray, University of Colorado sweatshirt. You must have had that shirt for five years.”

  Mark glared at him. “So what? It’s comfortable.”

  “If you’re going to be the tournament director, you should look the part, not like a homeless bum. You should be wearing Armani togs.”

  The first round had his buddies, Ben and Woody, against two of the suspects, Jacob Fish and Howard Roscoe. That might be informative to see if they gave off any useful signs of their involvement in Manny’s death.

  Mark had told his other friend Shelby to be there at nine o’clock, so that would give Shelby a buffer of an hour before his scheduled game in the second time slot.

  Fifteen minutes before the start, suspect Lee Daggett stomped up to the table where Mark sat. “My asshole partner got himself arrested. I need a new partner.”

  “Haven’t you lined up anyone else?” Mark swallowed a sigh.

  “No. I haven’t had time.”

  Mark looked at his watch. He wouldn’t be able to track down a replacement.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m not scheduled to play. I’ll fill in.”

  A maniacal grin spread over Lee’s face. “This should be interesting. You and I have a score to settle anyway from when you interfered with Cheryl in front of my house.” He whacked Mark on the back sending him sprawling onto the card table.

  Mark wondered what he had set himself up for. Now he’d have a chance to see Lee Daggett in action, up close and personal.

  The tournament started calmly. The first four teams warmed up on the two courts. With everything set for the moment, Mark decided to watch Jacob Fish and Howard Roscoe play his friends. He strolled over to the court and looked in the open equipment bags that Fish and Roscoe had left outside the door of the court. Both had a supply of Viking balls.

  The game progressed uneventfully until at two-all Jacob called Ben’s obvious good shot out.

  “That hit in the court by two inches,” Ben protested.

  “Missed by over a foot,” Jacob said with a smirk.

  “Howard must have seen it,” Ben said. “Didn’t you think it was in?”

  “I couldn’t tell,” Howard replied. “Jacob’s foot blocked my view.”

  Ben walked back, shaking his head.

  Ten minutes later, Woody hit a lob between Howard and Jacob. They both reached for it and collided as the ball fell in for a winner.

  “That was my ball!” Jacob shouted.

  “You’re out of position,” Howard said. “You were supposed to be close to net, not trying to reach for a backhand. My forehand has priorit
y, you jerk.”

  Jacob gave Howard a shove. Howard slapped Jacob with the back of his hand, sending him reeling.

  “Serve and quit the crap.” Howard returned to net.

  Everyone watched in silence to see what would happen next. Jacob took a step toward Howard, thought better of it and headed back to the baseline.

  Ben and Woody won the match in spite of continued bad calls by Jacob Fish. After the last point, Jacob refused to shake hands with anyone and stomped off the court.

  Mark sat at the table waiting for Ben to report the score. Lee Daggett reappeared and stood menacingly close to Mark’s right shoulder, slapping his paddle against his left hand.

  “We won six-four, six-three,” Ben said. “Say, Mark, you still planning to attend the city council meeting on Tuesday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’d better reschedule our Tuesday-night game. We’ll need to start at four to be done in time.”

  “Okay by me. Let Shelby and Woody know.”

  “Going to be doing your civic duty?” Lee Daggett asked from behind him.

  “Yeah. Some of us want to save these courts so we can play in the future. Whereas a group of the neighbors has tried to persuade the city to remove them.”

  “Someone needs to do a better job of convincing them to change their position,” Daggett said. “Grab your paddle, ass-hole. We’re on for the next match.”

  They both put their equipment bags down on the steps next to the courts. Mark looked in Daggett’s bag and noticed that he had a sleeve of Wilson balls.

  The first time Lee served, Mark crouched in position at the net. The ball whizzed an inch from his ear.

  “Sorry,” Lee said with a laugh.

  On the following point, Lee charged to the net. As the return came to the middle of the court, Lee lunged for the ball and rammed into Mark, knocking him over.

  “Oops.” Lee chuckled.

  Two games later Lee went back for a high overhead and instead of hitting it over the net, drilled the ball into Mark’s back.

  Mark staggered from pain but regained his balance. He looked Lee in the eyes. “If you’re trying to lose the match, you’re doing a good job of it. I can take your shit, but I suggest you try hitting the ball into the court for a change.”

  “Well, la de da.” Lee turned his back on Mark.

  Lee sent one more parting shot close to Mark, but kept the ball in play after that. Mark guessed that Lee hated losing more than he wanted to continue his intimidation.

  At noon, sandwiches arrived. The players took a break from the scheduled matches so they could have a chance to eat.

  Mark motioned Ben, Woody and Shelby to follow him away from the other people. “Any observations regarding the suspects?”

  “I think we’ll have another murder on our hands if Jacob Fish and Howard Roscoe keep playing together,” Ben said. “I don’t know why they signed up as a team since they spend more time arguing and fighting than playing.”

  “Probably couldn’t find anyone else willing to be partners,” Shelby said.

  “How’s Lee Daggett doing?” Ben asked Mark.

  “He’s more focused on harassing me than the opponents. I’d hate to meet him in a dark alley.”

  Maybe he had met Lee in a dark alley the night of Old Mel’s murder, Mark thought, as he looked up see a procession proceeding from the parking lot up the walkway. A dozen people, holding signs, marched toward the courts.

  The first sign, held by an old man in a ski cap, read: RID OUR NEIGHBORHOOD OF NOISY SPORTS!

  Mark recognized the woman who had spoken at the parks board meeting. She had replaced her tie-dye outfit with a pleated, white skirt. In her hands a sign said: MOVE THE COURTS AWAY. FAR AWAY.

  A third sign in bright red letters bounced up and down in the hands of a scowling, dark-haired woman. It contained the words: BRING BACK PEACE AND QUIET TO OUR NEIGHBORHOOD!

  The dozen or so people stopped right in front of the players, who were gathered on the ground eating lunch. The protesters started chanting, “Drum tennis must go! Drum tennis must go!”

  Most of the platform tennis players looked on in amazement, but Jacob Fish, Howard Roscoe and Lee Daggett all jumped to their feet, clenched their fists and moved toward the chanting group.

  Jacob pushed a stocky man in front who held a sign that said: OFF THE PLATFORM PIGS!

  The man teetered, caught his balance and pushed Jacob back.

  Lee Daggett stepped forward and, with a right jab, decked the protester.

  A woman slammed her placard down on Daggett’s head, tearing a hole in the sign and leaving it strung around his neck.

  Daggett roared and catapulted into the crowd, knocking several people over onto the group of platform tennis players, still trying to eat lunch. Pieces of turkey and ham shot skyward.

  One man stumbled to the side, landed on the card table and brought it crashing to the ground.

  A man shouting obscenities picked up the folding chair and threw it into the mob.

  Jacob Fish tackled him.

  Two more people fell on top of them with legs splayed in every direction.

  Howard Roscoe shoved a woman, who fell against two people behind her.

  She kicked, catching him in the ribs.

  Roscoe fell over and crushed a bag of cookies, sending crumbs spraying like kernels from a popcorn machine.

  Fists and feet shot out from all participants. Someone landed on an orange and a grapefruit, and juice spurted everywhere.

  Mark rushed forward to separate the combatants. He reached for a sign being bashed into the crowd and felt a punch hit his shoulder. He staggered and fell to the ground as the woman in the pleated, white skirt landed on top of him. Her crotch nestled tightly against his face.

  “Pervert,” she yelled and flailed at him with her fists.

  Mark covered his face as another falling body knocked him to the side. He smelled a distinctive sour odor as a shoeless foot pressed against his cheek.

  He heard curses and shouts above and a jolt as someone else fell on him. He saw an arm reach back to aim a punch at him.

  It belonged to Lee Daggett.

  Mark held up his arm to ward off the blow. Lee’s fist crashed into Mark’s right forearm, sending a jolt of pain shooting through his tender elbow.

  A whistle blew.

  Before Daggett could punch him again, arms began pulling at the pile.

  Through a space in the mass of humanity, Mark saw a uniformed policeman grabbing people and flinging them aside.

  Mark heard handcuffs clicking into place on his wrist. So much for a peaceful day of platform tennis.

  With everyone in handcuffs, the police lined the dozen protesters and sixteen platform tennis players up against the building wall to await a van. It looked like the aftermath of a prison food fight.

  Shelby, who was lucky enough to have his hands constrained in front, picked a piece of bread off his forehead, wiped away some mayonnaise with the back of his cuffed hands, then looked at Mark and said, “Does this mean the tournament’s over?”

  Inside the public-safety building, Mark sat nursing his bruises and sore muscles. “I tried to separate the protesters from three angry players when I got knocked into the melee,” he explained to an unsympathetic police officer. “Is Detective Peters on duty? He knows some of the people involved. Please find him.”

  Five minutes later Peters arrived and shook his head when he saw Mark. “What have you got yourself into this time, Mr. Yeager?”

  “Merely a little confrontation between some overly zealous neighbors and three of the murder suspects. Good thing you have Ken Idler locked up or he would have been involved as well.”

  “One of my fellow officers wants to press charges against you and your friends for disturbing the peace and destruction of public property.”

  “My only crime involved bringing together three of the suspects again. I think you have an innocent man locked up, or at least he’s innocent of
murdering Manny Grimes. One of the other three suspects committed the murder. It could be Lee Daggett. I found a Wilson platform tennis ball left in the mouth of the deer on my porch, and Lee Daggett uses Wilson balls.”

  “That sounds pretty flimsy,” Peters said. “We don’t have anything on Daggett. All the evidence points to Ken Idler.”

  Mark looked Peters straight in the eyes. “I’ve seen some of that evidence. I agree on the surface it looks like Ken Idler had a motive because Manny blackmailed him, but other factors come into play.”

  “What haven’t you told me, Mr. Yeager?”

  Mark took a deep breath. “There’s something going on between Lee Daggett and Ken Idler’s wife, Cheryl. She also drove Old Mel to the rec center to turn off the lights the night of Manny’s murder. She professes she did it at the request of Ken, but I think she’s in cahoots with Daggett.”

  “Interesting theory, but it’s not supported by the evidence.”

  Mark realized he had found no conclusive evidence pointing to Daggett as the murderer, but he pressed on. “Lee Daggett and Cheryl Idler are having an affair. They could have planned Manny’s murder and probably welcome the fact that Ken Idler is taking the rap and is conveniently out of the way, locked up in jail.”

  Peters wrote some notes on his pad and then looked up.

  Mark took this as a signal to continue. “I haven’t found anything to eliminate Jacob Fish or Howard Roscoe. I’m sure you’ve seen the report regarding the attack on Paul Crandall. The assailant meant that for me. Also, you’ll want to bring in a crack user named Clyde, who did a similar job for Howard Roscoe. And while you’re at it, there’s a downtown crack house for you to clean up.”

  Peters eyed Mark. “You’re a wealth of information.”

  “I’d especially like to understand Howard Roscoe’s dealings with Manny,” Mark added.

  Peters snapped his notebook closed. “Once again: Leave that to us.”

  “All right. Now, may I be excused? I’ll be happy to pay for any damage done at the rec center. I’ll also take responsibility for cleaning up the mess we left by the courts.”

  After being released, Mark caught a ride back to the rec center. Between the walkway and the building lay broken signs, a caved-in card table, a smashed folding chair and crushed food. He shook his head. Walking inside, he retrieved garbage bags from the receptionist, rolled up his sleeves and began cleaning up the mess. He carted away the bags and broken furniture and tossed the remains into a dumpster.